


inertia creeps

by witchlamb



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Pure Smut, Rough Sex, bite bite bite, both fully consenting, but both characters of age, got writers block? write porn, i like teeth okay, shameless canoodling, solas is just old, teeny bit of age difference emphasis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 06:02:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13358055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchlamb/pseuds/witchlamb
Summary: Oops.---Solavellan slash smut for the kink meme: "Lavellan challenges Solas to a drinking game and loses; but Solas is drunk enough to throw inhibition out the window. They end up going back to Lavellan's quarters and having sloppy, drunken elf sex."





	inertia creeps

Solas grasps him by the wrists and shoves until Lavellan hits the bed with an audible thump, his breath leaving his body in one gust of hot air.

"Hold _still_ ," he hisses, and Lavellan's whole face goes hot. Solas rarely scolds him like a child, but when he does it... does things to him, things Lavellan does not entirely understand. 

"Yes," he breathes instead, and does his best to stop his wriggling. Solas' head dips as if to kiss him but he passes Lavellan's mouth entirely and clamps his sharp teeth in the well of his neck, clenching teeth together until Lavellan cries out and bucks. Solas disapproves, shoves his elbow to the side to brace his forearm against Lavellan's chest and push down. It's perhaps not accurate to say that Solas is _bigger_ than Lavellan, because like all elves he's still slight compared to the shemlen, but he's a full head taller, and older than him as well. If they were really fighting, Lavellan might have the upper hand. But this is not a real fight. 

At least, it is not a fight Lavellan wants to win.

 _How_ this started, he's unclear on. He remembers -- vaguely he remembers the Herald's Rest, an establishment Solas rarely enters. Not because he's a teetotaler but because he prefers solitude in general, but every now and then he can be coaxed to come out of his painted cave. Lavellan had happened to be there this time, and they had talked magic until everyone else had gotten bored and left them alone. He remembers cards, but not what they were doing with them. Only that he'd insisted Solas drink whiskey, real proper _Dalish_ whiskey, and -- he remembers Solas, steadily drunker, pressing his hand to his thigh, and he remembers paying a lot of attention to the line of Solas' throat up to the point of his ear -- and someone must have slipped him something because he swears the faintly earthy tinge to the scent of his skin had been enhanced somehow and impossible to ignore. 

That must have explained why they had kept drinking when most everyone else had buggered off. That must have explained why he remembers Solas laughing so much, or the undignified gloating tone to his voice when something had... happened, something with a card? And he had said, _Well, let's make this interesting, then,_ and Solas had raised both eyebrows and stayed.

And then there were stairs, a lot of stairs. His shirt was gone by the time they reached the top. He hopes it's okay. Maybe Cole will find it and take care of it.

Solas' fingernails dig into the tender skin of his wrists at the same time as his teeth clench and scrape down his neck to the well of his throat. Lavellan's thoughts snap back to the present. That _hurts_ , and he gasps, and opens his mouth like he intends to protest but what comes out is a wobbling unsteady moan. His cock, uncooperative and traitorous, throbs. Ah, fuck -- he's wet. Is he? Yes. There's a faint wet stain where his erection is straining against his too-tight trousers. 

"Quiet," Solas says, and there it is, that disapproving scolding tone again. Only it's not, Lavellan thinks, actual disapproval, because they're tangled close enough together that _he_ can feel how fucking hard Solas is whenever Lavellan does something to misbehave and Solas has a reason to dig in his nails, his teeth, to tighten the grip of his hands. 

"Yes, hahren," he pants, his voice low, and is rewarded by the way Solas rocks his hips into his. Lavellan supposes they are making an awful lot of noise, but _feels_ like they're the stealthiest people on Thedas right now. 

Should have been a rogue. He would obviously have been great at it.

Solas releases his chest just to reach down and _yank_ hard on the laces holding his trousers together. Something tears. Lavellan giggles, actually properly giggles, feeling foolish and loose and like he's just floating through time and space. He turns his head away because he can't cover his mouth. "Ir abelas," he whispers. He's supposed to be quiet.

Solas unhands him. Lavellan opens his mouth to protest, but the hand that had been wrapped around his wrists now fists into his hair and _yanks_ , pulling him to the side as he yelps, then flipping him over roughly. "Terrible boy. Can't follow simple instructions," he says, like he's talking to himself and the tone and cadence are so at odds with the man Lavellan knew that for a moment he wants to use magic to check if it's really him. He's never heard Solas speak like this before. "If you can't behave yourself I'm going to have to punish you," Solas hisses in his ear and _oh fuck_ yes does he want Solas to punish him. Yes please. Where does he sign up for that.

He's pressed belly-down to the bed, but jerks and rocks back against Solas' body, trying to grind against him but not really in a good position for it. The cold air of his quarters -- aha, that's where they are -- normally is enough to discourage _anyone's_ nudity, but right now they could be in the middle of Antiva for all that temperature matters to him. 

He is mostly naked. Solas is mostly clothed. This seems like an unfair arrangement, and he opens his mouth to say so, but Solas grasps him by the back of his neck, digs his fingernails in, and _rakes_ them down his back. 

Lavellan does not _care_ that this is a terrible idea, does not _care_ that Solas usually kisses him and then walks away shamefully, like it's a secret -- not because of who Lavellan is but because there's something about _him_ that he won't admit, and Lavellan had thought the answer was that Solas was straight, but that can't be it, can it? Not with how hard his cock is, or how he occasionally looks at him like he's seeing past his face into something else, something precious and rare. 

"No," he says, and Solas hesitates and Lavellan realises he needs to finish that thought lest he get the wrong impression: "no, I wanna -- I wanna see your face, fuck -- hahren, kiss me, please --"

Solas reaches back and slaps him so hard on the ass that if they weren't three stories up and behind two closed doors the entire Inquisition would have heard Lavellan's cry. "When you've earned it, da'len." Tears sting in his eyes -- pain, yes, the shock of it, the faint humiliation -- which does not escape Solas' notice. He spanks him again. "Do you like that, lethallin?" He leans over him, looming like a wolf, and hisses into his ear, "Tell me you like it."

Ah, fenedhis, he's really going to make him -- fuck, _he's_ the one who's good with words, this isn't fair. "Yes," Lavellan says anyway, because he's nothing if not obedient. He can feel the heat of the liquor on Solas' breath brushing his own heated skin. If he weren't already well past inebriated... "Yeah. Yeah, fuck, I -- that's good. I like it, hahren. I want it, I want -- you. I need you to fuck me. _Please_ fuck me." It's not exactly poetry, but Lavellan's only good at stringing words together when it's a bunch of important-sounding platitudes about hope and darkness. Solas is the one who spits rhythm.

And actual spitting. Apparently. Which he's doing for -- _oh_ , and there are his fingers spreading him open, pressing right up against his ass and teasing at the hot sensitive flesh there. He groans, eyes half-lidded, and rocks back against those long digits. 

"Hardly your best," Solas muses, though there's an element of effervescence to his voice that is not normally present and is probably related to the Dalish rot-gut Lavellan spent all night pouring down his mouth, "but I suppose given the circumstances you might be forgiven. Yes, da'len, I'm going to fuck you. I'm going to fuck you until you scream, and then I'm going to keep on fucking you until all you've got is a rasping whisper." He slides his delicate long hand all up the length of Lavellan's ragged scratched back to wrap his hand around the back of his neck, pinning him in place. "I am going to flood you with seed until you're near to bursting. Do you understand, da'len?"

He's surprisingly strong. Lavellan can't break his grip no matter how much he squirms, which he hopes at least he's doing in an appealing sexual way and not like a limpid catfish. "Yes," he breathes.

Solas is _in him_ too quickly -- Lavellan supposes fingers had come first, but does not remember them -- and he does scream, fingers clawing at the bed below him. Solas is a burning heat hovering over him and then in him, thrusting into him too fast, too hard, his heavy balls slapping against Lavellan's pert ass every time he hilts himself completely inside of him. It stings, but Lavellan spreads his legs, invites him in deeper, harder, faster. 

He's achingly hard between the legs, so ready for this, wondering why they didn't do this sooner, why all it took were a couple dozen drinks to barrel past Solas' weak excuses, his own inhibitions, his fear of inadequacy -- wondering if maybe the both of them had been hurtling to this point of inevitability anyway. 

The wondering does not last long. Solas hauls him upright like he weighs as much as a handful of grapes, _lifts_ him from the bed, and pushes him stumbling forward on his feet until he slams into the wall. He's pulled out of him, but now he reaches behind Lavellan to grasp his cock to line back up and thrust back in. Lavellan is screaming, clawing at the wall, but also panting, moaning, rocking back onto his cock, desperate for it, for the hot throb of pleasure that courses through him whenever Solas thrusts _just_ right, at _just_ the right angle or speed --

He tries to turn, but Solas grabs him by the jaw and pushes his face into the wall. His head leans forward, teeth biting down on the back of Lavellan's neck hard enough to draw blood. He's going to have to wear a high-necked shirt tomorrow, and avoid the public baths. 

His instinct is not to kick and fight and flail; his instinct is to go limp under him, to submit to this. The pain heightens every other sense, leaves him raw and prickling along the skin, eager for contact. They're drifting right, he realises, until he's been shoved sideways across his desk, his limbs flailing and knocking over every single thing that's ever been on top of it, voice carrying on in a cacophany as Solas pounds him so hard he's afraid something is going to break. 

Lavellan falls first, but Solas follows, and then they're rutting on the ground, Lavellan on his back, Solas between his legs, leaning over him and presses his teeth and lips all over his jaw, his throat, his chest, as Lavellan claws wildly at his back, bitten and kissed at random intervals so he can never predict which will be next -- lips? Teeth?

"Don't stop," he cries. The room is full of the sound of their coupling.

Solas grasps him by the hair again and turns his head to look him in the eyes. That's what he wants, has wanted this whole time -- just one look like _that_ , raw and naked desire on his face, no more polite masks, or respectful distances. "Is that what you'd like, da'len? To take every last drop of my seed, and then to be left here laying there with a puddle under you, where anyone could find you, so well-used --"

" _Fuck. Yes._ " He's so hard he could cum. From imagining it, but mostly his _gods-be-damned_ voice, the way he growls it softly into his ear, so deep and low that it hits a chord somewhere inside of Lavellan he had not known he possessed and reverbrates. "Yes. Yes, take me, anything you want -- ah, fuck yes, hahren --"

Lavellan comes first. It is not sudden, but a slow drawing towards himself, a warmth that builds between his legs and then rockets out of him as an electric tingle through his hole body. He cries out in his spasm, rocks desperately against Solas, clinging to him, bruised and bitten red and raw, the relief so overpowering in its intensity that he might be laughing hysterically. Solas' head turns and his mouth crushes into his to silence him, tongue thrust into Lavellan's willing mouth as he opens for him, yielding, desirous. 

He does not come immediately, and it's sweet torture as he thrusts into him over and over, steadily faster, harder, until even Lavellan's ass is going to have bruises, he imagines -- but then he's there, it's happening, he shudders and throws his head back and _howls_ , and Lavellan is arrested by the sight of his long slender neck curving into the sharp point of his chin along his jaw, his eyes closed and utterly lost in a way Lavellan had not even known he was _capable_ of. He is wet, of course. Filled with him, with what should be too much for him to handle, but it's _so good._

He turns his head aside and moans as Solas collapses on top of him, chest heaving as he, too, struggles to breathe. He clings to him, feeling himself losing it and he knows he absolutely should not say what his stupid drunk mind is screaming for him to say, _he is not that drunk._

"That was like you," he manages to blurt out instead, and Solas laughs. Lavellan spends the next ten seconds praying for a rift to open and swallow him hole. "I meant -- that was -- gods. I meant I l-- iked it." 

Yes... liked _it._

Solas strokes his hand up his side and Lavellan sighs into his touch. "You realise," he says, "that now we've got to make it back to the bed."

Lavellan groans.

In the end, they do not make it back to the bed, and he passes out where he lays -- pretending not to notice when the soft pink light of dawn filters in in the morning how Solas rises, and gathers his clothes, and quietly leaves the room. They will both have to pretend not to notice a lot of things now.


End file.
